I#FII I 



i^inRiV 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS/# 



^^^'ZTp^ 



^ta. 



jpriglit ||c 



^^^#..S 



t UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 



O'^^^^^'^^'^'^'^'^'^'^'*^'^'^'^'^^ 



<«><^<^iSI 






w- 













i{ 



>f 



AW 



P 



^^ O^H" J//V(j^ 



^ 



^ \ 




by 



W' "Ti . 



^' 



NEWYORK, G.P.PUTNAM & SON 



e %'f$ a^ 



a 



AWFUL," 



^ND OTHER JI]SrG-LE 



S 



^■i 



By p. R. S. 

7 




G. P. PUTNAM & SOx^S, Publishers. 

ASSOCIATION BUILDING. 
1871. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the vear 1871, 

By p. R. STEOXG, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. 



LANGE & HtLLMAN, 
PRINTERS AND STEREOTTPERS. 

108, 110, 112 & 114 Wooster St., 
NEW TORK. 



TO 
CHARLES NORDHOFF, Esq.., 

Author and Jonrnalist, 
;^i^ ^Respectfully Dedicated. 



TO THE READER. 



Q^^;^Lr^ 



Mr. Brandt's clever design, which iUus- 
trates the title-page of this little volume, 
is intended to be suggestive of the esti- 
mate, in which such of its contents as as- 
pire to be satirical, are regarded by their 
author. 

During the last few years, the writer of 
these "jingles" has, from time to time, 
(chiefly through the columns of the ''New 
York Evening Post,") allowed himself to 
"snatch a fearful joy," in popping away, 
with his puny weapon, at sundry objects 



VI TO THE READER. 

of a general, though, it may be, an ephe- 
meral interest, as they loomed up on the 
horizon of our public. 

He ventures to hope that, in their pres- 
ent collected form, these attempts at a 
sportive raillery, not altogether wanton in 
its aim, and, he trusts, not uncharitable 
in its conception, may, as ''snap-shots," be 
lightly, and even indulgently, scrutinized by 
the keen eye of the critic. 




CONTENTS. 

Page. 

I.— "Awful!" 9 

II. — A Recipe for a Poem " in Dialect," 14 

III. — Tyng-a-ling-ting, 18 

IV. — Medieval Pottery, .... 26 

V. — Our " Little Boys in Surplices," . 31 
VI. — A Protestant's Appeal to Father 

Hyacinthe, 35 

VII. — The Peace Jubilee, . ... 39 

VIII.— The Prince's Visit, .... 42 

IX. — A New Year's Ballad, ... 45 

X. — Our last Snow-Storm, ... 51 

XI. — The Death - Song op the " Loew 

Bridge," 55 

XII.— Our New Firm : a Broad-Street 

Ballad, 62 

XIII. — Song of the Protectionist, . . 68 

XIV.— The "Lost Cause," .... 74 

XV.— A Tale of a Kite. .... 81 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



XVI.- 
XVII.- 

XVIII.- 

XIX.- 

XX.- 

XXI.- 

XXII.- 

XXIII.- 

XXIV.- 

XXV.- 

XXVI.. 

XXVII.- 

XXVIII.- 

XXIX. 
XXX.- 



-" Cui Bono ? " Addressed to Mrs. Stowe, 
-Thoughts suggested by a certain 

Holiday-Book, ... 
-Magdala : AN Abyssinian Ballad, , 
-To OUR Centenarian, . . . , 
-To THE Same, .... 
-" In Memoriam : " Charles Dickens 
-The Oneida Massacre, 
-Thoughts on New-Year's Eve, 
-" Annus Ir.e," .... 
-Paris : a "Lamentation," . 

-To Inez, 

-To 



-Motto for Brandt's Picture of 

" Resignation," 
-The " Eat-Hole Squadron," 
-" When Found, make a Note of it ! " 



Page. 

89 



93 
96 
105 
110 
114 
118 
123 
128 
131 
184 
136 

138 
139 

144 




AWFUL ! 



I WAS dining at Delmonico's, a week or two 

ago, 
With a charming little maiden and her dapper 

little beau ; 
And I tried, by close attention, as I trifled with 

my fork, 
To arrive at a solution of the meaning of their 

talk. 



II. 

It was all about a party, which, they said, was 

" awful jolly," 
Where their ''awful pretty" hostess had an 

" awful handsome Dolly ;'* 



lO <' AWFUL ! " 

And an " awful cunning necklace," which her 
'' awful good papa " 

Had procured for her at Tiffany's, while shop- 
ping with mamma. 

III. 

Yet 'twould seem there was a drawback to the 
pleasures of the fete, 

For the '' awful stylish " Reginald arrived "so 
awful late," 

And the ''awful swell" arrangement of his 
'' awful nice " cravat. 

And his ''awful lovely " waistcoat didn't com- 
pensate for that. 

IV. 

Then he flirted—" oh, 'twas awful !"— with that 
" awful little minx " 



"awful!" II 

Who was dancing, after supper, to the strains 

of '^ Captain Jinks ;" 
And he paid such " awful compliments " — 'twas 

really quite absurd — 
Just the " awfullest of nonsense that a creature 

ever heard." 



I listened, quite bewildered by the babble of 

the pair, 
Who were sitting at the table, with a very quiet 

air; 
And I thought, " My little darlings, if your 

soup were half as hot 
Or as potent as your language, it would kill you 

on the spot ! 



12 ''awful! 



VI. 



*' Now, if such a thing should happen, though 

you'd make an ' awful ' end, 
'Twould be fitting retribution for your usage of 

a friend — 
A grave and solemn Adjective — true Saxon to 

the core — 
Who should meet with proper treatment, not 

be forced to prove a bore. 

VII. 

" I confess, it sorely puzzles me, to think what 

you would say, 
If a something really azuftd wxre to happen in 

your way ; 
For I'm sure, with simple English, you would 

never be content. 



''awful!" 13 

But your thoughts, in foreign expletives, 
would have to find a vent." 

VIII. 

While musing in this fashion, (feeling rather 

cross and old,) 
I forgot about my dinner, which was getting 

" awful " cold ; 
And the adjective kept dropping from the lips 

of either child, 
Till with '' awful," " Awful," '' AWFUL," I 

was fairly driven wild. 




A RECIPE FOR A POEM '^IN DIALECT.' 



Take, for your hero, some thorough-bred 

scamp. 
Miner, or pilot, or jockey, or tramp — 
Gambler (of course), drunkard, bully, and cheat, 
*' Facile princeps'" in ways of deceit ; 
So fond of ladies, lie's given to bigamy, 
(Better, perhaps, if you make it polygamy) ; 
Pepper his talk with the raciest slang. 
Culled from the haunts of his pestilent gang ; 
Season with blasphemy, lard him with curses. 
Serve him up hot in your '■^ dialect " verses. 
Properly dished, he'll excite a sensation, 
And tickle the taste of our delicate nation. 



RECIPE FOR A POEM "IN DIALECT. 1 5 

II. 

Old Mother English has twaddled enough : 
Give us a language that's ready and rough ! 
Who cares, just now, for a subject Miltonlan? 
Who isn't bored by a style Addisonian ? 
Popular heroes must wear shabby clothes ! 
What if their diction is cumbered with oaths ? 
That's but a feature of life Occidental, 
Really, at heart, they are pious and gentle. 
Think, for example, how solemn and rich is 
The sermon we gather from dear " Little 

Breeches " ! 
Isn't it charming — that sweet baby-talk, 
Of the urchin who '' chawed " ere he fairly 

could walk ? 
Sure 'tis no wonder bright spirits above 
Singled him out for their errand of love ! 



1 6 RECIPE FOR A POEM. " IN DIALECT. 

III. 

I suppose I'm a " fogy " — not up to the age — • 
But I can't help recalhng an earher stage, 
When a Poet meant something beyond a Re- 
porter, 
And his Hnes could be read to a sister or 

daughter ; 
When a real inspiration {diviniLS afflatus) 
Could be printed without any saving hiatus ; 
When humor was decently shrouded in rhyme, 
As suited the primitive ways of the time ; 
And we all would have blushed, had we 

dreamed of the rules, 
Which are taught us to-day in our'' Dialect" 
schools. 

IV. 
It may be all right, though I find it all wrong, 
This queer prostitution of talent in song ; 



RECIPE FOR A POEM " IN DIALECT." 1/ 

Perhaps, in our market, gold sells at a loss, 
And the public will pay better prices for 

dross — 
Well ! 'twere folly to row 'gainst a tide that 

has turned, 
And the lesson that's set us has got to be 

learned ; 
But I'll make one more desperate pull to be free 
Ere I swallow the brood of that " Heathen 

Chinee." 

March 27, 1871. ' 




TYNG-A-LYNG-TING. 



I. 



*^ Oh say ! Brother Stubbs, have you heard 

how they talk 
Of this horrid Low Churchman, who's coming 

from ' York,' 
And who vows that, next Sunday, he'll preach 

without gown 
In the Methodist meeting-house here in our 

town ? 
Why, it's all in the papers, and men, as they 

run, 
Can read of the deed, that will shortly be 

done ; 



TYNG-A-LING-TING. 1 9 

It will empty our churches, for, most of our 

sheep 
Will take the occasion to listen and peep ; 
And, for many a day, will our parishes ring 
With the tiresome jingle of Tyng-a-ling-ting." 



II. 

*' Oh, what's to be done ? can't this outrage be 

stopped ? 
Can't our tottering pulpits, in some way be 

propped ? 
Let's run to our Bishop, and tell him the 

news ; 
His Reverence, doubtless, will shake in his 

shoes. 
When he hears that without, nay, against our 

consent, 
A son of the Church has declared his intent 



20 TYNG-A-LING-TING. 

To follow, SO blindly, his Master's command, 
And to sow his good seed on another man's 

land. 
Come, on let us hurry to settle this thing, 
By stifling the chorus of Tyng-a-ling-ting ! " 



III. 

So, straight to their Bishop a journey they 
make, 

And, at first, the sad news makes him quiver 
and quake ; 

But his courage revives, as their tale they un- 
fold, 

And he says, with an accent decided and 
bold, 

" Dear friends, there's a canon long buried in 
dust. 

And terribly choked up with ashes and rust ; 



TYNG-A-LING-TING. 21 

But we'll oil it, and give it some wipes and 

some rubs, 
And we'll load it with charges of Boggs and of 

Stubbs, 
And then, as a paean of triumph we sing, 
We'll fire it off with a Tyng-a-ling-ting." 

IV. 

So the Bishop he delves, and the Bishop he 

grubs, 
And, by dint of assistance from Boggs and 

from Stubbs, 
The canon is dragged from the rubbish, which 

chokes 
Its ugly old muzzle ; and loud are the jokes 
Which its obsolete pattern, and straight, narrow 

bore 
Excite in the crowd, who are waiting its 

roar ; 



22 TYNG-A-LING-TING. 

And then they compel our good Bishop of 

" York " 
To hear all the grievance, and stand all the 

talk ; 
And by night, and by day, dreary changes they 

ring, 
As they chime their sad anthem of Tyng-a- 

ling-ting. 



V. 

And then to St. Peter's, to open the court. 
The judges, and jury, and counsel resort ; 
And good Christian people, with wondering 

ears, 
Are waiting to hear a priest tried by his 

peers. 
And they call up the case, .and the lawyers 

begin 
To indulge in their usual, professional din, 



TYNG-A-LING-TING. 23 

And, by bitter invective, and quibble, and 

sneer. 
To show what a mass of corruption is here. 
And really 'tis shocking! what charges they 

bring. 
As they peal the loud slogan of Tyng-a-ling- 



VI. 



Ah me, 'tis a sight at which angels might 

weep ! 
'Tis a harvest of tares for our churches to 

reap! 
Sweet charity's presence has fled from the 

scene. 
And good men lose temper, and revel in 

spleen ; 



24 TYNG-A-LING-TING. 

And the doubters and scoffers, who relish such 

suits, 
Cry, " Lo, these are Christians ! come, judge 

of their fruits ! " 
And the cauon has burst, and with dissonance 

loud, 
Has deafened the ears of the shuddering 

crowd. 
And the pall of its smoke, like a garment doth 

cling 
To the walls, that still echo with tf Tyng-a- 

ling-ting. 

VII. 

Oh ! servants of Him whose sole mission 

was Love, 
Do ye still bear as emblems, the Lamb and the 

Dove? 



TYNG-A-LING-TING. 25 

When ye read, from your desks, the sweet les- 
sons that tell, 
How He preached in the Temple, and taught 

at the well. 
Doth the sapient glance of your wisdom de- 

tect 
That he bounded your duties by parish or 

sect? 
Oh ! bid these small envies and jealousies 

cease ! 
Join all in one brotherly anthem of peace ; 
And, when your glad voices in harmony ring, 
They'll drown the harsh discord of Tyng-a- 

ling-ting. 
February 31, 1868. 



MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 

A SEQUEL TO TYNG-A-LING-TING. 

I. 

On the shelves of old cabinets, costly and rare, 
You'll often find bits of Majolica ware ; 
An article formerly much in repute, 
And oddly bedizened with reptiles and fruit ; 
Its choicest productions were ugly and rude. 
And its offspring, at best, a fantastical brood ; 
But the fame of '' Palissy the Potter " and 

stoic. 
Has lent, to its origin, something heroic. 



II. 



How charming his history ! Read it and mark 
What a flame you can raise, if you'll stick to 
the spark ! 



MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 2/ 

To bend the rude elements just to his will, 
He braved every hardship, with patience and 

skill : 
He kneaded the clay, and he baked and he 

burned, 
Till the scale of his destiny finally turned ; 
The secret was guessed, and the victory won, 
And Majolica shone in the light of the sun. 



III. 

Well, men are but clay ! and to mould us to 

aught, 
That is broad or contracted in action or 

thought, 
We need but a Potter, who'll knead us as well, 
And will bid our proportions to narrow or 

swell. 



28 MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 

There are times, when a lengthy and stern 

admonition, 
Might work a vast change in our Christian 

condition ; 
Perchance, it might point us the way to our 

home. 
If free from all doctrine that savors of Rome. 



IV. 

There are sights at St. Albans from which, we 

should think, 
Any orthodox churchman, with horror, might 

shrink ; 
In the Chapel of Trinity, mass has been sung 
By priests, who rejoiced in a ^' classical tongue." 
But, for these ^ the strong arm of '' the Church " 

has been stayed, 
And the voice of her thunders most strangely 

delayed, 



MEDIyEVAL POTTERY. 29 

And '' Our Protestant Lady " has failed to 

protest, 
For reasons (no doubt), which are wisest and 

best. 

V. 

Are we turning a page of the present or past ? 
Is the cloud mediaeval still over us cast ? 
Do we live to enforce narrow edicts that bind 
Each generous impulse of conscience and mind, 
Then lull us to slumber, so lasting and deep 
That no noisy Reformer can trouble our sleep ; 
And forbid all repairs to our mouldering wall, 
Though its time-honored arches should 
threaten to fall ? 

VI, 

The Potter can fashion (in suiting each case). 
One vessel to honor and one to disgrace. 



30 MEDIEVAL POTTERY. 

He can give, to his work, the broad stamp of 
his age, 

Or the quaint, crabbed lines of an earlier 
stage ; 

But, in moulding " Church Articles," let him 
beware, 

And handle his tools with particular care ! 

For the lightest of shocks to the frail manu- 
facture. 

Will sometimes result in a terrible fracture. 
Apnl 7, 1868. 




'^ OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES." 

"He [Dr. H.], for one, -was willing to dispense witli the 
services of ' our little boys in tlieir customary dresses,' if 
tlie consciences of certain delegates were troubled by tlieir 
presence, tliougli lie could not understand sucli squeamish 
feelings." — Remarks in Oeneral Convention, 1868. 

I. 

Oh ! we've heard full enough of the '^ boys in 

gray," 
And *' the boys in blue " have had their day ; 
And now I submit that it's orthodox, quite, 
To speak a few words for our boys in white ; 
Those nice little fellows in surplices. 

II. 

How sweetly they look as they stand in a 

row, 
With each dear little mouth rounded just like 

an O, 



32 " OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES." 

And their cheeks all aflame, as they strain at 

the notes, 
Which rise to the skies from their pure little 
throats ! 
Those good little boys in surplices. 

III. 

Men's voices and women's, are all well 

enough 
To sing about love, or some other such stuff; 
But, to fill a high church with melodious 

noise. 
You may trust to my word, there is nothing 

like boys ; 
Like our own little boys in surplices. 

IV. 
*Tis true, there are worshippers, '' squeamish " 

and low. 
Who look on the thing as a kind of a show, 



'' OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES. 33 

And who roundly complain, with a shrug and 

a sigh, 
That the little boys' voices are rather too 

- high," 
In spite of the weight of the surplices. 

V. 

Now, really, such people are naught but a 

scandal ; 
We can't have a mass, and we can't light a 

candle, 
But some one objects to those innocent joys, 
And now they're attacking our poor little 

boys ; 
Those sweet little darlings in surplices. 

VI. 

You may pile up your pillows, ye merciless 

crew ! 
But our babies shall never be smothered by you; 



34 " OUR LITTLE BOYS IN SURPLICES." 

For their *' Tower" is proof against all that 

annoys, 
And we'll fight, to the last, for our '' Trinity 

boys ; " 
Our little pet choir in surplices. 




A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL TO 
FATHER HYACINTHE. 

Oh, wandering Priest, whose very name is 

fragrant. 
Sure thy offences must be sadly flagrant, 
Since thus they drive thee to our sheltering 

nation, 
Chased by a Bull — of excommunication ! 

Canst thou not swallow down, with due hu- 
mility. 
This doctrine of '' Papa's" infallibility^ 
Are not the virtues of the line pontifical 
Printed in type, distinct though hieroglyphical ? 



36 A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL. 

Have any of St. Peter's " true successors" 

Ever been known to walk with the transgres- 
sors ? 

Have they not all, by wisdom, love, and meek- 
ness. 

Proved that a Pope is free from human weak- 
ness? 

We cannot help admiring thy sincerity. 
But still we shudder at thy rare temerity ; 
Clearly, thy ^' status" as a Priest is critical. 
If measured by the standard Jesuitical. 

Well ! now thou art our guest ; and hospitality 
With us is no vain shadow, but reality ; 
If anything that flies can see through it. 
We " guess" 02cr Eagle is the bird to do it. 



A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL. 37 

Thou'lt find our worshippers a " mixed assort- 
ment," 

Quite various in doctrine and deportment ; 

Some are " sky-high," while others make ob- 
jections 

To pictures, candlesticks and genuflexions. 

Mormons and Baptists, Methodists and 
Quakers, 

Jews, Turks, and Puritans, and Sabbath-break- 
ers, 

Saints, Pharisees, and publicans and sinners. 

Will surfeit thee with flattery and dinners. 

'^Let us have Peace!" why hesitate? ^' cui 

bono ? " 
Choose now for Luther or for '' Fio No7io ! " 
Come 0M\. flat-footed ! let us plainly gather, 
If thou art still in thrall to '' Holy Father." 



38 A PROTESTANT'S APPEAL. 

Don't keep us waiting ; for, in long proces- 
sion, 

We Protestants are wild for thy possession ; 

From Trinity 'way down to Plymouth Chapel, 

We're quite prepared to wrangle, close, and 
grapple. 

So, Father Hyacinthe ! dear friend and brother. 
Will thou not, please y be one thing or the other ? 
Jump off the fence ! thy bellowing foe's behind 

thee ; 
Land on our side, and take the part assigned 
thee. 
October 29, 1869. 




THE PEACE JUBILEE. 

(GotJiamitus loquitur}) 
I. 
Go it, Boston ! Well, now, really. 

This is something like a show ; 
Gallant little bantam ! clearly, 

You have earned the right to crow. 
Goodness gracious ! what's the matter ? 

Why this cock-a-doodle-doo, 
Piercing with its startling clatter. 

All the country, through and through ? 

II. 

What has roused this '' dreadful pother," 

All this tempest in a pot ? 
Break it gently, Yankee brother, 

But in mercy tell us what. 



40 THE PEACE JUBILEE. 

" Peace," you say ; but, comrade, surely 

Not the peace of long ago ! 
Why, 'tis years since we securely, 

Settled with our Southern foe. 

III. 

Then, besides, that little quarrel 

Was a family affair ; 
Boots it now to preach its moral 

W^ith your noisy trumpet's blare? 
When our erring, '^ wayward sisters " 

Tossed the sponge, 'twas quite enough 
Why keep clapping on such blisters. 

As your jubilees and stuff? 

IV. 

Let the grim Past sleep in quiet. 

^' Onward," *' onward," be the word i 
Wake not, with untimely riot, 

Mem'ries that should not be stirred. 



THE PEACE JUBILEE. 41 

O'er those scenes of crime and folly, 

Gently drop oblivion's pall ; 
Cant you manage to be jolly 

Without making such a squall ? 

V. 

What ? you say you can't ? then go it ! 

Crow your loudest ; rack your domes ; 
While you camion-ize your poet, 

You'll be constant to your Holmes, 
So, at least, you'll be domestic. 

And you'll meet with great renown, 
As your owl, with flight majestic. 

Hovers over Boston town. 
June 16, 1869. 




THE PRINCE'S VISIT. 



A SEQUEL TO THE " MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



I. 



"Arthur is come again !" 

{Vide your Tennyson). 

Let us extend to him 

Welcome and benison ! 

Treat him to canvas-back, 

Terrapin, venison — 

Ne'er shall Victoria 

Twit us that any son 
Born " in the purple," has met with neglect. 
From a nation that holds her in honest respect. 



THE PRINCE S VISIT 43' 

II. 

" Arthur is come again !'* 

Never a girl in 

Our jubilant city 

But dreams of a whirl in 

The arms of the hero, 

Whose coming, old Merlin 

Predicted as certain, 

(Though, whether at Berlin, 
Or Paris, or Gotham, he didn't define), 
And a smile from *' the Prince," as he passes 
the wine. 

III. 

** Arthur is come again !" 
List to old Trinity. 
What a clear case of 
Elective affinity ! 
Soon as he reaches that 
Fane of divinity, 



44 THE PRINCE S VISIT. 

Even before he has 
Set his foot in it, he 
Hears the loud anthem of " God Save the 

Queen," 
And finds, though it's Sunday, he's in for a 
scene. 

IV. 

"Arthur is come again!" 
Good ! let him come ! 
At our simple '^ Round Table " 
There's plenty of room. 
If (by chance) in his pocket 
He happens to hold 
What the thief " Alabama " 
Has cost us VI gold^ 
We'll forget we're republicans : yes, and I ween 
We'll all join in the chorus of '' God Save the 
Queen !" 
February 8, 1870. 



A NEW YEAR'S BALLAD. 

'' Le rot est mort ! Vive le roi /" 
I. 

My stars, what a baby ! just see how he kicks ! 

Why, he's bubbhng all over with frolicksome 
tricks ; 

Look ! he's climbed to the box, and got hold 
of the reins, 

And he's dashing, like mad, o'er the moun- 
tains and plains. 

Though a very fresh chip from a very old block. 

He gives ample assurance to warrant his stock. 



II. 

Well, let him roll on with his fuss and his clat- 
ter, 



46 A NEW year's ballad. 

To bless and to ban, and to build and to batter; 

But one thing is sure, whether racing or creep- 
ing, 

As he isn't Bissextile, he won't take to leaping ; 

Fewer days than his father, he's doomed to 
survive. 

Who had three-sixty-six to his three-sixty-five 

in. 

And what will he see, in his rollicking flight. 
With its flickering changes of shadow and 

light ? 
What new star of hope is he likely to find? 
What beacon, to scatter the mists of the 

mind*? 
What temple of wisdom, whose builders have 

wrought 
With a holy design in their labor and thought.*' 



A NEW year's ballad. 47 

IV. 

How he'll pause, with a comical stare of sur- 
prise, 

When the picture of Europe unfolds to his 
eyes ! 

With her lions, and eagles, and roosters, and 
bears. 

All sullen, and watchful, and burdened with 
cares ; 

All waiting a chance to give point to the moral, 

That ''might makes the right," when you set- 
tle a quarrel. 



Will he cheer up the heart of that heir of St. 

Peter, 
Who is singing, just now, in such very short 

metre ; 



48 A NEW year's ballad. 

Who still jingles his keys in the ears of his 

flock, 
But objects, like A. Pope, to the '' Rape of the 

Lock"? 
Will he tell him of Protestant folks in the 

West, 
Who would seem to be winging their way to 

his nest? 



VI. 

I'll wager he'll pass, without turning his head. 
Over Asia and Africa, twins of the dead ; 
But he'll take a good look, as he hurries along. 
At our model republic, so lusty and strong ; 
At the stars we have rescued, the stripes which, 

of yore. 
Were a jest to the witlings who thronged to 

our shore. 



A NEW year's ballad. 49 

VIL 

He will find us (God grant he may leave us) at 
peace, 

With a will to advance, and with room to in- 
crease ; 

With our own chosen leader, whose prayer, 
like a balm, 

First stole to our hearts with its promise of 
calm. 

He will find us not thankless, though sifted 
and tried ; 

With our past as a warning, our future to 
guide. 

VIII. 

Then a health to the baby ! come, comrades, 

unite 
In a " Welcome, sweet stranger, so active and 

bright!" 



50 A NEW year's ballad. 

Let our jubilant voices in harmony chime 
To this heir of the seasons, this bantling of 

Time, 
Till the wondering nations grow sick of the 

riot. 
And beg that we'll be just a trifle more quiet ! 
January 1, 1869. 




OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 

" Jam satis terris nivis atque dirge 
" Grandinis misit Pater," etc. 

Horace, Carm. ad. Cses. Aao-. 



I. 
Yes, Horace was right! It would ruffle a 
saint, 
To see how the snow-flakes are tumbh'ng ; 
Why, even Old Boreas howls a complaint. 

And scatters them, scolding and grumbling. 
They whiten our streets, which had Whiting^ 

enough, 
Before this last dose of a " perilous stuff," 
Which threatens destruction to body and 

bones, 
As we stumble and reel on the slippery stones. 
* The street contractor of the day. 



52 OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 

II. 

They say that our city is sewered : no doubt ; 
But that doesn't help ousr condition ; 

For 'tis Sczvard himself who has brought this 
about, 
In his role of '' the Great Politician." 

He'd have done well enough, had he stopped 
with St. Thomas, 

But Alaska, he ought to have kept away from 
us ; 

And Congress should, really, pass laws of pre- 
vention. 

To guard us, in future, from Arctic extension. 



Til. 

This may be a March, but it's awfully slow ! 
'Tis as slow as the '' Dead " one in '' Saul ;' 



OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 53 

While singing of flov/ers, we're choked with 
the snow, 
And our melody ends in a squall. 
Our frost-bitten sparrows, who lately foretold, 
That winter was over, look dreadfully " sold," 
And seem as unhappy, and dumpish, and 

dreary, 
As if they had met with a " corner " in Erie. 



IV. 



Well, all things must end, and with " suffer- 
rc 

We'll wait for a change of the scenery ; 
But we cannot help fearing, that something 



With the works of our planet's machinery. 
Should her axle want greasing, sure naught 
could be done 



54 OUR LAST SNOW STORM. 

To bring us again within reach of the sun, 
Unless Dr. Hayes, or some other good soul, 
Would just dribble a cargo of oil at her Pole. 

Vernal Equinox, 1868. 



THE DEATH-SONG OF THE "LOEW" 
BRIDGE. 

Oh, why was I born, since so quickly I die ? 
Will any good Christian please answer me 

why? 
Unpitied, unwept, and (it may be) unsung. 
On a pile of old scraps, I am doomed to be 

flung. 
But my wrongs shall find utterance yet, ere I 

go, 
And our city shall ring with the voice of my 

woe. 

Two summers have tried me with torturing 
fire; 



56 DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 

The snows of two winters have vented their ire ; 
I have borne all the heat, and resisted the cold, 
With a spirit unyielding, and constant, and 

bold; 
No shameless accuser has dared to pretend, 
That I ever have threatened to waver or bend. 

When, o'er the packed thoroughfare known as 

Broadway, 
My youthful proportions first greeted the day, 
With what loud hosannas, they shouted my 

name. 
How they vied with each other, to herald my 

fame ! 
But, alas ! all these laurels are torn from my 

brow. 
And none are *' so poor, to do reverence " 

now. 

Oh ! spare me a little, that I may renew 



DEATH-SOXG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 57 

The pictures and scenes, that have dazzled my 

view, 
Through all the long gallery, stirring and rife 
With the phantoms, that whirl in the mazes of 

life. 
Let me list, once again, to that Babel of 

throats, 
That roar of the crowd, as it rises and floats. 

Under me, over me, surging, a throng, 
Ceaseless and restless, has hurried along ; 
Men, who were cankered by Mammon and 

care ; 
Women, with burdens unseemly to bear ; 
Children, who climbed me with innocent feet. 
Thrilling my frame with their frolicsome beat. 

Proudly and joyfully, under my arch, 
Soldiers have moved to the strains of the 
march ; 



58 DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 

Slowly and sadly, the car of the dead, 
Hollowly rumbling, has followed their tread ; 
Life in its sunshine, and death in its gloom, 
Guests for the banquet, and food for the 
tomb ! 

But, now it appears, I'm no longer the fash- 
ion ; 

(Were I not iron-clad, I should burst in a 
passion ;) 

There is ^' metal " 'twould seem, '' more at- 
tractive " to many, 

Who swallow a guinea, but strain at a penny ; 

And the merciless foe, who first pointed his 
guns. 

Has just scrawled on my body some pitiful 
puns.* 

* On the partially demolished bridge, hung several 
placards bearing inscriptions of a humorous character, in 
which the name of its life-long enemy, "the hatter," 
figured largely. 



DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 59 

There ! he's coming already, to stifle my 

prayers ; 
He's unscrewing my bolts, and removing my 

stairs : 
My life and my strength he is sapping away. 
But I wont be abridged^ till I've finished my 

say: 
Though too humble and low to be storied in 

verse, 
I have strength enough yet, for a withering 
curse. 

Oh ! wretch without feelings though not with- 
out felt, 

Who hast killed me by pelting, yet livest by 
pelt, 

When Winter shall loosen the links of his 
chain, 

And the snow-covered pavements are flooded 
with rain : 



6o DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 

When the crossings are strangers to shovel 

and brush, 
And you wallow, knee-deep, in the mud and 

the slush, 
When drenched and bespattered by horses 

and wheels. 
Cold, weary and wet, you crawl home to your 

meals, — 
Oh, then, may the ponderous weight of my 

wrath, 
Prove a clog to your feet, and a snare to your 

path ! 
May you stumble and plunge in your 

devious course. 
Till your bosom is charged with the pangs 

of remorse, 
And a healthy resolve shall be wrought in 

your brain, 
That, if you are spared, YOU WILL BUILD 

ME AGAIN. 



DEATH-SONG OF THE LOEW BRIDGE. 6 1 

Then, stately and grand, in proportion and 

size, 
My form, like the Phcenix, once more shall 

arise ; 
With '' all modern improvements," adorned 

and perfected, 
A second edition, revised and corrected. 

December 17, 1868. 




OUR NEW FIRM: A BROAD-STREET 
BALLAD. 



Some tales of mythology 
Need an apology, 

For, they're of outrages full ! 
But, as touching Europa — 
Now, did she elope, or 

Was she entrapped by the Bull ? 



II. 



There's a palpable mystery 
Clouding this history. 

As to the prominent agent 



OUR NEW FIRM : A BROAD STREET BALLAD. 63 

And I'm tempted to swear, 
'Twas a beast of a Bear, 

Who played the first part in the pageant. 



III. 



True, in that legend olden. 
We read of '' horns golden," 

And ''hide that was white as the snow,' 
And of " caper and antic," 
That lent a romantic 

Effect to the charms of her beau. 



IV. 



But, our friend Mr. Taurus 
Is here set before us, 

In such an improbable light. 



64 OUR NEW FIRM : 

That Tm sure 'twas Sir Bruin, 
That plotted her ruin, 

And compassed her desperate plight. 



Perhaps 'tis her fate 
That's one cause of the hate 

Which our ladies evince to the fetters, 
That a greater brute — man — 
Has attached — all he can, 

To the moietv known as *' his betters." 



VI. 



In these days of Sorosis, 
A metamorphosis 

Appears, that's as odd, to the full 



A BROAD STREET BALLAD. 65 

For, who knows, should he meet 
Mrs. (Blank) on the street, 

If, just now, she's a bear or a bull? 



VII. 



Well ! if ladies will amble 
On hobbies, and gamble 

In stocks, like the Broad Street '' elect,' 
Let us trust that our brokers, 
(Those pretty rough jokers). 

Will treat them, at least, with respect. 



VIII. 

May our Bulls and our Bears, 
In this venture, go shares ; 
And, (whether as debtor or lender) 



66 OUR NEW FIRM: 

Not forget that "our firm " 
Is a delicate germ, 

Which, when parsed, is of feminine gender ! 



IX. 



Let the '' Medical Student," 
(Who never was prudent, 

When brass might ensure him eclat,) 
Do his utmost to vex. 
And to jeer at, " the sex," 

With a '^ itoics avons chaiige cela'' 



X. 



I say, give them full swing ! 
'Twere a capital thing. 

If they'd get us " the rhino " — and, maybe, 



A BROAD STREET BALLAD. ^^ 

The time will arrive, 

When the '' creatures " who wive, 

Can stay home and look after the baby ! 

February 14, 1870. 




SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 

Sing a song of TariflF: prices are so high, 
Everybody wants to sell, and nobody to buy ; 
When the ports are opened, we'll all begin to sing ; 
For Common Sense will govern us, and Cotton won't be 
king. , 



I. 



Yes, indeed, 'pon my word, it is simply absurd, 

This foolish and fierce agitation. 
Which, by fits, now and then, some unprinci- 
pled pen, 
Wt/l excite, to embarrass our nation. 
And, for what? Just because certain Revenue 
laws. 



SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 69 

(To which zveve no sort of objection,) 
Have kindled a fire of pestilent ire, 

Which roars — at the name of Protection. 
Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, fol-de-rol-lol ; 
Keep our rickety engine in motion ! 
We are proud of each thump of her wheezy 
old pump, 
Drawing toll from the land and the ocean. 



II. 



Rich Dives may growl, and poor Lazarus howl. 

When. they think of the cost of commodities. 

Which, at quarter the score, on some alien 

shore, 

Would be viewed as the queerest of oddities; 

But, while bold Captain Greeley, so loudly and 

freely. 



70 SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 

Forbids us to yield to dejection, 
We'll fling out our banner in orthodox manner, 
And sing of the charms of protection. 
Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 



III. 

Sure, with all the restrictions and weary inflic- 
tions. 
Which good Madame Tariff imposes. 
With her duties and taxes, we'll grind up our 
axes, 
While the rest may look out for their noses. 
Let's keep everything dear ! — it will be very 
queer. 
If folks do not see the propriety, 
Of lauding high prices, and saying " How 
nice is 
This tribute, we pay to society!" 

Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 



SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. /I 

IV. 

We don't want the people to climb up the 
steeple, 
And see, in the haze of the distance, 
How cheaply and kindly, the seed, scattered 
blindly, 
Matures, without special assistance. 
We don't want the notion of simple devotion 

To labor, content with its '' penny," 
To come, forcing its way (at least not in our 
day), 
And deranging the projects of many. 
Then, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 



'Neath Monopoly's aegis, so vaunted by sages, 
Who ought to know wisdom from folly. 



72 SONG OF THE PROTECTIONIST. 

We'll be full of assurance and hopeful endur- 
ance, 
And, (while we grow rich,) we'll be jolly, 
But, alas ! a prediction of cominj^ affliction, 

Begins to intrude on our quiet ; 
And, ere closes the season, perhaps we'll have 
reason, 
To judge if our stars will deny it. 

But, sing fol-de-rol-lol, etc. 



VI. 



If Congress will, on-ly just ''let us alone," 
We'll be happy, and strong, and defiant ; 
And we'll laugh at each raid of this host of 
Free Trade, 
With its veteran chief, Mr. Biyant. 
But, ah me! in that host, men who cling to 
their '' Postr 



SONG OF iHE PROTECTIONIST. 73 

(And who don't lack for courage or muscle) 
Are about to unite, and to gird for the fight, 
And zvho knows zvhat ivill come of the tussle ? 
Yet, sing fol-de-rol-lol, fol-de-rol-lol ; 

Keep our rickety engine in motion ! 
We are proud of each thump of her wheezy 

old pump, 
Drawing toll from the land and the ocean. 

January 24, 1870. 



THE -LOST CAUSE." 



Vide Wade Hampton's J^eecJies. 

I^AST night, as I was wandering home, 

And musing on events to come, 

Dimly, from out the ruddy glare 

Of gaslight, shimmering through the air, 

An image of a dusky hue, 

Loomed slowly upward to my view. 

With reeling step, it groped its way, 

Till, 'neath a lamp-post's quivering ray, 

I caught the letters C. S. A. 

I saw the rusty suit of gray, 

Which clothed a figure, tall and thin, 

Most strongly redolent of gin ; 

Fast clinging to the iron shaft, 



THE LOST CAUSE. 75 

It coughed, and whined, and feebly laughed ; 
And then, from faltering lips, '' there rung 
These accents of" a tipsy tongue: — 
" I say, my friend ! now just look here ! 
Where can it be? 'tis very queer ! 
But, though I've hunted o'er the Park, 
And searched the city through till dark, 
I cannot find the thing I've lost; 
Though rivers, mountains I have crossed, 
I've failed to get a single trace, 
To guide me to its hiding-place. 
Somehow 'tis gone, and, like Othello's 
Or some of those old fighting fellows, 
My ' occupation's ' with it fled. 
And I might just as well be dead. 
Say, can't you help me in my search ? 
Don't leave a brother in the lurch." 

" What hast thou lost, O grisly sprite, 



76 THE LOST CAUSE. 

Strange, dubious phantom of the night ? 
What vanished gem of priceless worth, 
Dooms thee to wander thus on earth? 
Describe the thing, and for the rest, 
I'll gladly aid thee in thy quest." 

" Why, look here, mister ! (the reply 
Was clogged with many a maudlin sigh), 
I've lost the Cause, the Cause (d'ye see?) 
Worth more than aught beside to me ; 
The noble Cause, which for long years, 
Drenched all our land with blood and tears 
The righteous Cause, whose naked truth 
Was loudly preached by gallant Booth ; 
The Cause whose fall, by Seymour s aid. 
Though not averted, was delayed. 
I, sir, am one of Seymour's ''friends ' / 
We're working both for common ends ; 
He's mighty smart, I don't deny, 



THE LOST CAUSE. 77 

But what of that, sir ? so am I ! 

I've strung up niggers by the score, 

I've held the torch to house and store ; 

I've lots of Yankee scalps, to show 

My mode of dealing with a foe ; 

I'm not a reconstructed flat. 

No, sir ! you bet your life on that ! 

But, somehow, things ain't looking bright ; 

You see, they whipped us in the fight ; 

And, though our brothers at the North, 

Are putting all their muscle forth. 

By choosing copper-headed men, 

To set us on our legs again. 

The masses, clearly, don't incline 

To ' keep the ranks,' and ' toe the line/ 

And stupid asses, such as Grant, 

Seem just exactly what they want. 

Our cause is lost ! The Southern heart 

So often fired, has played its part ; 



78 THE LOST CAUSE. 

And, sunk to dimness and decay, 
The flame is smouldering fast away. 
The Cause is lost ; but, wandering round, 
I'm trying if it can't be found ; 
I've sought to clear my failing sight, 
By drinking cocktails day and night ; 
I see all other objects double, 
Except the object of my trouble. 
Come, stranger, lend a helping hand ; 
Aid me to search, or else to stand ; 
For somehow things are spinning rounds- 
Just here, he pitched upon the ground ; 
A senseless mass, he reeled and sunk, 
A case of " most decided drunk." 

Spurning the creature as he lay, 
With loathing soul, I turned away, 
And thus in sad, yet grateful strain. 
My thoughts resumed their track again : 



THE LOST CAUSE. 79 

Yes, it is lost ! thank God, 'tis lost ! 
Long was our stately vessel tossed, 
With shattered planks and canvas rent. 
Till the foul storm, at length, was spent. 
Now justice to the iaithful few, 
Who stood, unbribed, amid her crew. 
Till willing hands could mount her deck. 
And save her from the threatened wreck ; 
Now, decent homage to the dead, 
Who, for her rescue, starved and bled ; 
Respect for men, whose forces gone, 
With crippled limbs, still struggled on, — 
Demand, that while o'er all the past, 
A pardoning veil we freely cast, 
This motto stand recorded yet : 
'' Let us forgive, but not forget." 
Let treason whine a doleful stave ; 
Let Hampton's tears bedew its grave ; 
We've buried it so fast and deep 



80 THE LOST CAUSE. 

That noibome weeds shall never creep, 

From out its festering decay, 

To spread anew their baneful sway. 

Thank God, 'tis lost ! that venomed chain 

No hand shall ever forge again ! 

And now, when baffled traitors try, 

To make tJicir sJiaine a rallying cry, 

When lips which, but a few years past, 

Breathed fire and slaughter to the last 

Ply all their eloquence and art. 

To rouse some pity in the heart. 

For the " Lost Cause," the " dear Lost Cause,' 

Shall such stale tricks command applause? 

Nay ! treat them as an empty jest, 

Flung from the lips of one possessed ! 

Let all true men esteerr. it shame, 

To give. " the Cause " a milder name. 

Than that which stamped it from the first, — 

A loathsome thing, a Cause accursed, 

September 15, 1868. 



A TALE OF A KITE. 



A Buzzard once sat, where an Eagle had 
perched — 

(Chorus of hey-diddle-diddle) — 
Foul was his plumage, and draggled and 

smirched ; 
And to those, who his queer antecedents had 
searched, 
How he ever got there, was a riddle. 
Still, lie zvas tJiere^ 
And his thorough-bred stare 
At the orthodox, azure-veined lords of the air, 



82 A TALE OF A KITE. 

Seemed to smack of " the purple ;" and, when 

with a smile 
And a brotherly kiss to the Queen of the Isle, 
Whose " sun never sets," he had settled the 

thing, 
He talked like a Caesar, and felt like a king, 
And never a monarch, and never a bird 
Wore a haughtier crest than Napoleon Third. 



IT. 

But, alas for the Caesars ! they cannot keep 
quiet, — 

(Chorus of hey-diddle-diddle) — 
When they've once had a taste of imperial diet, 
They're sure to wax fat, and to kick up a riot, 
With old Nick to play at the fiddle. 
And 'twas really absurd 
How this overgrown bird. 



A TALE OF A KITE. 83 

This terrible glutton, Napoleon Third, 

Took to coaxing and bullying, plotting and 

lying. 
While his dupes were a-groaning, and starving, 

and dying; 
He cared not a pin, so that he and his chick 
Might have plenty of victims, to worry and 

pick ; 
''Make Europe a graveyard, let Mexico howl, 
So we feather our nest," quoth this truculent 

fowl. 



III. 



Well ! at last, a fine opening was thrown in his 

way — 

(Chorus of hey-diddle-diddle) — 
A Dove, with a crown, that had seen its best 

day, ' 



84 A TALE OF A KITE. 

And with feathers all ''soiled" and bespattered 
with clay, 

Though /// not abuse her, for aught that they 
say, 
fSince Truth often lies in the middle — 
And we, all of us, know 
That 'tis '' in medio 

Tiitissiiniis ibis'' — a maxim worth quoting, 

When talking of people, or driving or boating — 

This Dove, (to return from our classic digres- 
sion,) 

Too weak for resistance, too proud for conces- 
sion. 

Was finally chased, and, w4th might and with 
main, 

Took her ultimate flight from the kingdom of 
Spain. 



TALE OF A KITE. 85 



IV. 



Now, the Buzzard, who ruled o'er the fortunes 
of France, 

(Chorus — the same as before,) 
Jumped as quick as a trout, as he scented the 

chance, 
And he marshalled his flocks, and prepared an 
advance 
On a nest, he had ^' spotted," of yore, 
Where a grisly old fellow. 
With plumes black and yellow, 
A full-blooded Eagle, kept aquiline state, 
By the side of an equally full-blooded mate. 
With a shallow pretence, he manceuvred the 

quarrel, 
And he vowed that his conduct was righteous 
and moral. 



86 A TALE OF A KITE. 

For "the Eagle," said he, ''has an eye upon 

Spain ; 
I'll be switched if I stand it — there now, that 

is plain." 

V. 

I suppose that, since Abel was clubbed by his 
brother, 

(Chorus — the same as before,) 
And the phantom of Death came to quench, 

and to smother 
Mortality's lamp, there has ne'er been another, 
Such banquet of carnage and gore. 
For, with murderous rage. 
Did the parties engage 
In a pitiless struggle for power and life. 
Unheeding the victims who gasped in the strife. 
And the women and children left helpless, for- 
lorn. 



A TALE OF A KITE. 8/ 

Too weak to protest, and too abject to mourn. 
'^ Now's the time to decide who's the ' cock of 

the walk,' 
'Tis with talons we'll argue — with blows we 

will talk." 



VI. 



And the talons did argue with eloquence stern, 

(Chorus — the same as before,) 
Till the poor stricken Buzzard was driven to 

learn 
A lesson, though wholesome, yet likely to burn 

Through the well-padded armor he wore. 
And, at last, at Sedan, where he looks for a 

chair 
Supported by Poles, lo ! the Prussians are there ! 
And they take his Sedan, and they carry him 

off, ^ 



88 A TALE OF A KITE. 

While the little birds chatter and gossip and 

scoff. 
'Tis a pretty hard lesson when once you've 

been regal, 
But a Buzzard, you see, shouldn't tackle an 

Eagle ! 



Moral 

Hey-diddle-diddle ! Life's but a riddle ! 

Guess it the best that you can ! 
But if, weary with care, you must sit in a chair, 

Beware how you choose a Sedan ! 
That's your plan. 

If you're really '' a sensible man." 

September 5, 1870. 



GUI BONO? 



(respectfully addressed to MRS. HARRIET 
BEECHER STOWE.) 



Well ! call it true !— that filthy tale, 

Raked from the garbage of the Past, 
Though Nature's self might well prevail, 

To stamp it Falsehood, to the last. 
Aye ! brand with foul and loathsome shame, 

The Poet's memory, nor spare 
The buried sister's spotless fame, 

If but the wife's may show more fair. 



90 GUI BONO 



II. 



When all is done, and all is said, 

And finished is the vampire-quest ; 
When o'er the mute, defenceless dead. 

The crushing load is firmly pressed ; 
When dripping sword and venomed shaft. 

Have hacked and pierced the helpless corse, 
WJmt good will come ? — what wholesome 
draught, 

Can e'er distil from such a source ? 



III. 

A woman's hand has bared the steel ; 

A woman's eye has aimed the dart ; 
This damning charge, with pious zeal, 

Was nurtured in a woman's heart. 



GUI BONO. 91 

And what the pretext ? — what the need ? 

Simply that one, who loved the Bard, 
Hints that his gracious lady's creed, 

Was somewhat narrow, cold, and hard. 



IV. 

No doubt, the work was wisely done ; 

A righteous work — not over nice, 
Nor decent ; — but 'twill make us shun 

Those rhymes, that teach insidious vice : 
In sooth, till now, we little knew 

What shocking secrets lurk within. 
Each glowing sketch the artist drew. 

Each chronicle of monstrous sin. 

V. 

"What good?^' Why look! The Bard 'Ms 
dead 
And rotten." Well, he's had his day. 



92 GUI BONO. 

None can disprove a zuord thaf s said. 
So now we safely '' say our say." 

Should carping critics dare pretend 

That we are moved by worldly spleen, 

At least 'twill serve sensation's end, 
And advertise a magazine. 

August 27, 18G9 




m,mmm 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A CER- 
TAIN HOLIDAY-BOOK. 



I. 



Oh, Mrs. Stowe ! oh, Mrs. Stowe ! 
How cou/d you let this volume go ? 
Surely, your ladyship must know, 
That doubtful tales of guilt and woe, 
(When all the actors sleep below 
The turf, where gentle daisies blow, 
Careless, alike, of friend or foe, 
Harmless, if y oil II but leave them so), 
Don't help to teach morality. 



94 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY 



II. 



Oh, Mrs. Stowe ! oh, Mrs. Stowe ! 
While England hangs the mistletoe. 
And wassail reigns, and yule-trees glow, 
And peace and mirth and kindness flow, 
Her people's hearts will bitter grow. 
That she, their honored guest — (ah, no ! 
Not she ! — some other — tell it so /) 
Has smirched their Phoenix to a crow. 
Too black to mock reality. 



III. 

Oh, Mrs. Stowe ! oh, Mrs. Stowe ! 
At the dread Court, to which we go, 
Sure, it were time enough to know 



A CERTAIN HOLIDAY-BOOK. 95 

The wanderings of a star, whose glow 
Dazzled a world, while high and low 
Felt loftier thoughts and feelings grow. 
And, circled by its radiant bow. 
Spurned at the lips that fain would show 
Proofs of the Bard's depravity. 



IV. 



Oh, Mrs. Stowe I oh, Mrs. Stowe! 
Would God that you had left it so ! 
If, in your woman's breast, a show 
Of pity mingled with the low, 
Sad voice of Duty, well we know, 
With quivering hand, you struck the blow 
With tears, you bade this volume go. 
Charged with its load of guilt and woe, 
To sink— from laws of gravity. 
DdcewSe/'Bl, 1809. 



MAGDALA. 

AN ABYSSINIAN BALLAD. 

Part I. Air: '' Lord Lovcir 

King Theodore sat in his glory and might, 

In jolly good spirits was he ; 
He had just been enjoying the daintiest sight, 
That an African monarch could see — see — ■ 
see — 
That an African monarch could see. 

He was counting the heads of a bevy of wives, 

Which were carelessly lying around ; 
They were tied up, in bunches of fours and of 
fives, 



MAGDALA. 97 

And were scattered all over the ground- 
ground — ground — 
And were scattered all over the ground. 

Then slowly and timidly, up to his side, 
With a diffidence charming to see, 

Crawled sweet Theodora, his very last bride. 
And thus to her master said she— she— she- - 
To her lord and her master said she : 

" We are growing quite lonely, great Sovereign 
ot all. 
Our solitude's really a bore ; 
For our sisters, around us, so rapidly fall, 
That now, we count hardly a score — score — 
score — 
That now, we count hardly a score. 

" Oh, fill up our numbers, by purchase or stealth. 
Without any needless delay, 



98 MAGDALA. 

And then, for your happiness, power and 
health, 
Your petitioners ever will pray — pray — 
pray— 
Your petitioners ever will pray." 

King Theodore tossed off a skullful of gin, 

And nodded assent with a smile. 
For he thought of a widow, with '' oceans of 
tin," 
Who was Queen of a sweet little isle — isle 
isle — 
Who was Queen of a sweet little isle. 

" 'Tis a capital notion," he shouted with glee, 

*' I'll hurry and write her a letter; 
It's true she can't boast of a long- pedigree^ 
But 'twill answer, for want of a better — 
etter — etter. 
But 'twill answer, for want of a better." 



MAGDALA. 99 

So the letter was filled with effusions of love, 

Such as ardent young sons of the South, 
Are wont to employ, in a jessamine grove, 
When the heart rises up to the mouth — 
mouth — mouth — 
When the heart rises up to the mouth. 

And the monarch sat quietly drinking his gin. 

With a gentle occasional sigh. 
And married four times (just to keep his hand 
in), 
While awaiting the precious reply — ply — 
ply- 
While awaiting the precious reply. 



lOO MAGDALA. 

Part II. Air: '* Yoinig LocJiinvary 

Oh, brave General Napier's come from the 

North, 
And has marshalled his troops, and is leading 

them forth, 
And, with camels and elephants, donkeys and 

boys. 
Is makine a terrible clatter and noise : 



'Tis as Mars, not as Cupid, he visits the shore, 
. he b 
dore. 



And he bears no love-token for King Theo- 



With rockets and Armstrongs, and mortars 

enough, 
Torpedoes and muskets, and rifles and stuff; 
With powder and caps, which were brought 

by the ton, 
This true British lion, and son of a gun, 



MAGDALA. lOI 



Is bound to give vent to a thundering roar, 
When he gets within hearing of King Theo- 
dore. 



With a flush on his cheek, and a resolute mien, 
As he sternly recalls the affront to his Queen, 
Each hardy foot soldier strides on at a pace. 
Which is less like a march than a regular race. 
He laughs at the foes he must grapple before, 
He can come to close quarters with King 
Theodore. 

Besides, there are brothers who languish and 
faint ; 

There are sisters with children, whose inno- 
cent plaint 

Has pierced to the ears of the pitying throng, 

With its burden of suffering, sorrow and 
wrong ; 



I02 MAGDALA, 

'Tis a weighty inducement to settle the score, 
Which stands to the debit of King Theo- 
dore. 

At length, all the mountains and deserts are 

past, 
And Magdala's fortress is sighted at last, 
And Napier cries in a confident tone, 
'' That paltry possession shall soon be our own, 
Or you safely may swear, that I battled and 

fell, 
In a cause which humanity glories to tell." 
Things look rather doubtful, and scaly, and 

sore, 
For the peace of our hero, poor King 

Theodore. 

The captives are freed, and with eager delight, 
They hail the glad welcome of sunshine and 
light. 



MAGDALA. IO3 

But the stubborn barbarian scorns to admit, 
That he's met with a foe, who can rival his wit ; 
So he fights to the last, and, when nothing 

remains, 
He fires a pistol right into his brains (?) 
And a mass of brown clay that encumbers his 

floor, 
Is all that is left of the King Theodore. 



MORAL. 



If you want to get married, don't venture too 

high, 
Nor fly in a rage at the lady's reply; 
Don't meddle with foreigners, women or men. 
And thrust them like calves in some horrid 

old pen ; 



I04 MAGDALA. 

That game is played out, and will answer no 

more, 
'Tis a moral that's left us by King Theodore. 

April 30, 1868. 






LINES 



ADDRESSED TO 



CAPTAIN LAHRBUSH 



ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTH ANNIVERSARY OP 
HIS BIRTH-DAY. 



I. 



Oh, friend ! whose still unsliattered form, 

A hundred years and four 
Of Summer's sun and Winter's storm, 
Have left with pulses, quick and warm, 

As throbbed in days of yore ; 



I06 TO OUR CENTENARIAN. 

II. 

We greet thee with a sober joy ; 

With earnest, solemn thought ; 
With hope that each of us — a boy 
Compared with thee — may well employ 

The lesson thou hast taught. 



III. 

The record of thy stainless life, 
Its ''passing strange " career ; 
Its day of calm, its years of strife, 
With stirring thought and action rife, 
Demands a tribute here. 



IV. 

What thronging phantoms of the past, 
What weird and shadowy band 



TO OUR CENTENARIAN. 10/ 

Of armies crushed— of navies vast, 
That reeled and sank before the blast, 
Must rise at thy command ! 

V. 

What glowing pictures of the brain 

Must crowd upon thy thought ! 
Thrones that upheaved to fall again ; 
Monarchs enforced to wear the chain. 

Themselves had rashly wrought. 



VI. 

Foremost of all, a simple grave 

In lone St. Helen's Isle, 
Where thou, a soldier tried and brave. 
Didst watch and list the sullen wave. 

That ever moaned the while. 



I08 TO OUR CENTENARIAN. 

VII. 

Hushed is the turmoil , wind and tide 

Have sped thee on thy way ; 
Till, now, thy wandering bark doth ride 
In sheltered haven, safe and wide, 
That mocks the tempest's sway. 

VIII. 

Strange, that the nation of thy choice, 

To which her weary prow 
Bore thee, a pilgrim, to rejoice. 
Freeman at last, in heart and voice, 

Has fcivcr years than thou ! 

IX. 

Teach us that heritage to prize 
Our fathers bled to win ; 



TO OUR CENTENARIAN. IO9 

Teach us, like thee, v/ith trusting eyes, 
To wait the orb, whose heahng rise 
Shall purge the mists of sin. 



Dear comrade, friend, and honored guest. 

Relic of ages, past ; 
While, round our board, with boyish zest. 
We pass the wine-cup and the jest, 

(Still mirthful to the last), 

XI. 

Smooth be life's pathway to thy feet, 

And, distant far the year. 
When such of us as live to meet. 
Shall miss thy form, and fail to greet 

Its welcome presence here ! 

March 9, 1870. 



TO 

CAPTAIN LAHRBUSH, 

ON HIS ONE HUNDEED AND FIFTH ANNIVERSARY. 



Dear Captain ! pray excuse our noise 
We're but a giddy lot of boys, 
Who havn't quite forsworn the joys, 

Of juvenile frivolity. 
'Tis natural, that we should strive 
To reach thy hundred years and five ; 
And, so, we aim to keep alive. 

By dint of mirth and jollity. 



TO THE SAME. Ill 



II. 



Another year has rolled along, 
Since last we welcomed thee in song ; 
Another year has swelled the throng, 

That tells of Time's mortality ! 
Yet, still unbroken, undefaced— 
'Gainst ev'ry shock securely braced — 
Thine image moves amid the waste, 

A living, warm reality ! 



III. 



A year of mem'ries, dark and dread. 
Which hang around the Gallic dead, 
Who bravely fought and idly bled. 

To glut a tyrant's vanity ! 
A year, that smote Rome's triple crown 



112 TO THE SAME. 

And hurled its shattered fragments down, 
And made the terrors of her frown, 
A jest to all humanity ! 



IV. 



But, why prolong a strain severe, 

In musing o'er the buried year. 

Since now we're met, to greet thee here 

With toast and fun and pleasantry? 
Some other day, we'll cogitate 
On solemn points of Church and State, 
And settle, in our grave debate, 

The rights of Prince and Peasantry. 



V. 

Just now, we want, in grateful rhyme. 
To render thanks to Father Time, 



TO THE SAME. 113 

Who spares thee, in thy wintry prime, 

A landmark for posterity ! 
Convinced, that when we've run our race, 
And other boys are in our place, 
They, too, shall read upon thy face 

No sign of his severity. 



VI. 

And, should our General * renew 

His welcome call for a Review, 

May we (whose years must seem so few 

When matched with thy maturity), 
Be here, as now, to grasp thy hand. 
Proud, at thy side, again to stand — 
A body-guard, at thy command — 
A pledge for thy security ! 
Marcli 9,1871. 

* Gsn. J. Watts de Peyster, tlie liost of tlie occasion. 



JUNE TENTH, 1870. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

I. 

There's a crowd of troubled faces at the cor- 
ner of the street, 

Where the brief and hasty bulletin is scrawled 
upon the sheet, 

With a terrible distinctness, that arrests the 
busy feet. 

Of thousands moving on. 



II. 

It came stealing o'er the wire, with a slow and 
sullen spark,^ 

* Charles Dickens died on the 9tli of June, 1870. The 
announcement of his death was delayed, for several hours, 
owing to a derangement of the telegraphic communication, 



IN MEMORIAM. Il5 

Like a storm-cloud that is brooding, when the 

sky is grim and dark, 
And the fatal bolt is lurking, to engulf the 

gallant bark. 

Which still goes moving on. 

III. 

And the men, who feel the burden of a new 
and heavy woe, 

Get them sadly to their dwellings, with reluc- 
tant step and slow. 

For they're thinking of the tidings that shall 
startle like a blow, 

While they keep moving on. 

IV. 

Dead— thoughtless— senseless— silent ! No, it 
cannot be ! the brain, 



Il6 IN MEMORIAM. 

Which has wrought so long and deftly, must 

be animate again 
With its constant, tender sympathy for every 

brother's pain. 

It umst keep moving on ! 



Why, the man was our great teacher in the 
battle-school of life ! 

He has shown us how to struggle, how to con- 
quer in a strife, 

Which, for every son of Adam, is with deadly 
peril rife, 

As Time goes moving on. 

VI. 

Who shall lift the fallen sceptre ? Who shall 
grasp the wand of might ? 



IN MEMORIAM. II7 

Who shall conjure up new phantoms, to allure 

us or affright, 
From the realms of joyous sunshine, from the 

shades of grisly night, 

And keep them moving on? 



VII. 

God doeth all things wisely ! — and we know 'tis 

for the best. 
That the loving heart is pulseless and the 

weary brain at rest. 
They have gained an immortality in every 

human breast — 

They II still keep moving on ! 

June 10. 1870. 



THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 

Not a cry >vas heard, as *he good ship went down."- 

Testimony of Captain's Clerk, Mr. W. W. Crowninshield. 



Not a cry was heard, as the ship went down ! 

There they stood — every man at his post ! 
What, to them, was the pitiless frown 

Of the demon of darkness, that wrings us 
most, 
As we think of a death, in the gloom of night, 
With the shuddering stars for our only light, 
And know that, unmarked by human eye, 
We shall wrestle alone with our agony ? 



THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. IIQ 

II. 

There they stood— every man at his post ! 

Over the waters securely rode 
The bloodless monster, whose flippant boast 

Was a blasphemous challenge to man and 
God. 
" I've sunk a d — d Yankee — and serve her 
right !" 

Such was the burden of the song, 
Which the British sailor, in coward flight, 

Sang, as he bowled on his way along. 



III. 

There they stood — every man at his post ! 

Veteran Captain and beardless youth — 
Each, in that hour, himself a host. 

Clad in the armor of Duty and Truth. 



I20 THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 

There they stood, as the ship went down, 
Reehng and plunging to meet her doom, 

Gilding our annals with fresh renown, 

Plucked from the jaws of their yawnin< 
tomb. 



IV. 



There they stood — every man at his post ! 

Brothers and countrymen, pause and mark ! 
Is it enough that, with speech and toast. 

We pledge to their memory? Cold and 
stark. 
They are floating now, if the ravenous maw 

Of the grim sea-tiger, has left them a chance 
To be washed to the bounds of a distant 
shore, 

By the heaving billov/s' slow advance. 



THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 121 

V. 

There they stood — every man at his post ! 

Here zve sit, and, at even-tide 
Talk, now and then, of the ship that was lost, 
And the ''poor, faithful fellows" who sank 
and died. 
Is it enough ? Do we lack for a stone, 

Whose sculptured record might tell their 
tale 
To future ages, when we are gone. 

And the star of the Present is dim and 
pale? 

. VI. 

Let not the brand of a selfish race — 

Of a people absorbed in the lust of gold — 

Spread to the world, as a foul disgrace. 

That the heart of our nation is dead and 
cold. - 



122 THE ONEIDA MASSACRE. 

Here is a lesson, which we, who teach 

The darling children that climb our knees, 

May add to the list of the texts, that preach 
The noblest and purest of homilies ! 

April 22, 1870. 




THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

" And He said, ' Draw not nigli liitlier : put off thy shoes 
from tliy feet ; for tlie place wliereon thou standest is holy 
ground.' " 

" And God said unto Moses, 'I AM THAT I AM:' and 
He said, ' Thus cshalt thou say unto the children of Israel, 
I AM hath sent me unto you.' "—Exodus in. 5 and 14. 



Halt, my Soul ! arrest thy footsteps — tread 

not thus on holy ground ! 
Where thou standest, build thine Altar — 

there, in suppliance, be found ! 
Put aside thy way-worn sandals — bare thy 

feet in nakedness : 
Chant thine Old Year's miserere, while its 

lengthening shadows press. 



124 THOUGHTS ON NEW YEARS EVE. 

II. 

Lo, the great " I AM " hath spoken ! Horeb's 

mount, with shuddering awe, 
Trembled at that dread announcement, clothed 

with Majesty and Law, 
When, from bush that, unconsuming, blazed — 

a miracle of flame — 
To His chosen prophet-leader, first Jehovah 

breathed His name. 

III. 

''I AM THAT I AM!" Oh, Maker, mighty 

Sovereign, Source of all ! 
Not from lips of human weakness, words like 

these should idly fall ; 
Not by us, the worms, the creatures, whom 

Thy matchless skill hath wrought. 
Lightly should that name be uttered, or that 

solemn truth be taught. 



THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 1 25 



IV. 



"I am that I am!" The worldlmg, nursing 

many a secret sin, 
Echoes it with loud bravado, covering anxious 

doubts within. 
''I am tJiat I am— no better — what I am is 

God's decree ! " 
Blasphemy befits the coward, clutching at 

that empty plea ! 



V. 



What am /, whose very being, fraught with 

mystery and pain. 
Fills me with a dumb amazement, puzzling 

weary heart and brain ? 



126 THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

Wherefore live I, move I onward, one amidst 

a motley throng, 
Hurried by a tireless current, sweeping good 

and bad alone? 



VI. 

Life is brief! but, swiftly gliding, rolling on 
with glowing wheels. 

Time seems long to many a victim, trampled 
by its coursers' heels : 

Long, to reach the goal that shineth, pure and 
white, in spotless bloom ; 

Long, between the bounds that sever cradle- 
couch and quiet tomb. 

VII. 

Yet the old, old Truth abideth ! — balm for 
every wounded breast — 



THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 12/ 

" He who loveth most his neighbor, loveth 
wisest, loveth best !" 

Charity, with moveless finger, points the way 
to realms, above ; 

Points the straight and narrow pathway, radi- 
ant with the light of Love. 



VIII. 

Then, O Soul ! in grave communion with the 
lingering, dying year. 

Put away thy tattered vesture— robe thyself 
in holy fear — 

Strive to win the " wedding-garment," washed 
from every human stain. 

Passport to that better country, where unceas- 
ing glories reign. 



ANNUS IR^. 
I. 
There's a stain of blood in the wintry sky — 
There's a scent of blood in the freezing 
air — 
The hollow blast goes moaning by, 

Sick with its burden of despair. 
For the leash has been slipped from the dogs 

of war, 
And their muzzles are red with human gore ; 
And, fast by the couch of the dying year, 
Gather the phantoms of Woe and Fear. 



II. 



Who is to blame, that a world so fair 

Writhes in the throes of a monster-birth ? 



ANNUS IR.E. 129 

Who is to blame, that a crimson glare 

Mocks at the gloom of a shuddering earth ? 
PV/io is to blame ? Ah me ! I wot, 
Saxon or Gaul, i^ 7natters not. 
Never was lacking to Adam's seed, 
A glib excuse for a selfish deed. 



III. 



Year, that hast trodden a bloody path, 

Flaunting thy banner of empty pride ! 
Year, that hast crushed, in thy frenzied wrath. 

Legions of victims who fought and died ! 
Dark is thy record to eyes that mourn. 

Hateful thy name to the widowed breast, 
Draining its milk for the nursling, born 

'Mid the horrors, that hung on thine awful 
crest ! 



130 ANNUS IR^. 



IV. 



God still relgneth ! and we who wait, 

Weary with vigil, but not disnnayed, 
Beat at the bars of the crystal gate, 

Hoping and trusting in Mercy's aid ; 
Hoping to welcome the sway of Peace, 

Trusting the promise of days to come, 
When the angry blare of the trump shall 
cease. 

And the Vv'ail of the perishing ranks be 
dumb. 

NeiD Tear's Eve, 1870. 




PARIS. 



A " LAMENTATION." 



Faster and fiercer, an iron hail 
Hurtles out of the brooding sky ! 

Languishing, famishing, ghastly pale, 

Stripped of her glittering vest of mail. 
How doth the beautiful city lie ! 

Hushed is the revel — the dance is o'er — 

Laughter and singing are heard no more— - 

Only the cry of a wild despair. 

Rings through the mirk of the startled air. 



132 PARIS. 



II. 



Lover and friend, who are put away — 

Ye who have basked in her sunny smile- 
Is it naught to you that a wrathful day, 
Terrible — grim — with its pallid ray, 

Glares on her nakedness the while ? 
Grant she was proud in her day of might — 
Grant she was wanton, and vain, and light- 
Still, in the depths of that wayward breast, 
Angels of mercy were wont to rest. 



III. 

Weak is the strength of the human heart — 
Subtle the sway of the tempter's power — 
Queen of the cities, she played her part, 
Mistress of fashion, and science, and art. 
Pouring her vv^ealth in a ceaseless shower. 



PARIS. 133 

Hives, for the stores of the busy mind — 
Homes for the homeless — the halt — the blind — 
These were her jewels — each a gem, 
Worthy a Satrap's diadem. 



IV. 



Staggering, reeling before the foe, 

Who can regard her with tearless eye? 

Who can look on at the savage blow, 

Crushing her, grinding her down so low, 
Wagging his head as he passes by ? 

Famine and sword, ye may do your worst ! 

For when clouds have gathered, the storm 
must burst — 

But, frail are the links of your iron chain. 

And th€ wing, ye would fetter, shall soar again ! 

January 28, ISTi. 



TO INEZ. 

My heart was like Bethesda's pool ; 

Calmly its waters slept ; 
Around their edge — a loathsome crowd — 

Foul thoughts and passions crept. 
Disease and sin lay waiting there, 

To hail the promised balm, 
Which, heaven-descending, should impart, 

Its precious, healing charm. 



Thine angel-form approached the pool ; 

The sluggish waves were stirred, 
The accents of thy gentle voice, 

The startled waters heard. 



TO INEZ. ^35 

And, one by one, each child of sm, 

That reached that wondrous tide- 
Each unclean offspring of disease- 
Washed and was purified. 

Stay, dearest, stay ! Oh, make thy home, 

Within this longing breast ! 
No more will, then, its troubled waves 

Subside to slothful rest ; 
But, heaving with resistless power, 

And, widening in their sway. 
Before their might, shall foul disease 

And sin be swept away. 




TO 



A SHATTERED wreck on a weary sea, 

Hopless and aimless, I drifted on — 
Present and future alike to me — 

For joy Avas extinguished, and faith was 
gone I 
Round me, and o'er me, with angry frown, 

Hovered the clouds of a mournful past ; 
Thicker, their shadows kept crawling down — 

Darker, the veil of their Hoom was cast ! 



II. 



A light broke out of the sullen sky — 
A gentle ripple the waters stirred — 



TO ■ 137 

And a beautiful bark came gliding by, 
Fair as the form of an ocean-bird. 

Once again, with a sudden thriU, 

I felt the heave of the bounding wave : 

Once again, did my pulses fill 

With the life and the rapture thy presence 



III. 



Side by side, through a sunny day, 

Sailed we together— then came the night ! 
Sleepless, I watched for the morrow's ray- 
Gone was the phantom that mocked my 
sight ! 
Vision of happiness ! vision of grace ! 

Why dids't thou waken a slumbering breast ? 
Better for me, if thine angel-face, 

Never had troubled my slothful rest ! 



MOTTO FOR BRANDT'S PICTURE OF 
''RESIGNATION." 

The night is past, and joyous day 

Salutes the rising sun ; 
Homeward the mourner wends her way, 
With hngering step, and lips that pray 

" Father, thy will be done ! " 



Within her breast, a holy calm 

Has, with the day, begun ; 
No anxious doubt, no fear of harm, 
While clinging to His sheltering arm, 
Who spake : " Thy will be done !" 



THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON.^ 

I. 

Steadily, grimly, o'er the waters, 

Moves a veteran fleet : 
Steadily, grimly, steering southward, 

Strangest doom to meet ! 

II. 

Laden dov/n to their very gunwales — 
Groaning 'neath their freight — 

Food for sport to the mocking billows ; 
Ministers of Fate I 



" The name given to the fleet of superannuated, stone- 
laden whalers, employed for the obstruction of Charleston 
harbor. 



I40 THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. 

in. 

Side by side, like a band of brothers, 

Knit by a common vow, 
Steadily, grimly, to its haven, 

Points each weary prow. 

IV. 

All, from main-truck down to kelson, 



Seamed with ghastly scars : — 
Canvas sere and straining cordage — 
Rotting planks and spars. 

V. 

Racked by thousand fierce encounters- 
Worn by tempest-shocks — 

Crippled by the raging billows. 
Treacherous shoals and rocks. 



THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. H^ 



VI. 



Many a year, among the icebergs, 
By the wild Northern Hght, 

They have chased the ocean-monsters, 
In their desperate flight. 



VII. 



Fierce pursuit and boisterous triumph- 
Swift their glad return- 
Echoing shouts announce the headland, 
Where the watchfires burn. 



VIII. 



Burdened, now, with many winters- 
Shattered wrecks of Time- 
Mightier service shall they render, 
Than in proudest prime. 



142 THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. 

IX. 

Damming up a venomed fountain — 

Hemming Treason in : — 
Forcing back its loathsome current, 

Foul and black with sin. 

X. 

Teaching wide the bitter lesson, 
(Wholesome, though 'tis late,) 

^' Rebel hordes and noxious vermin, 
Find a common fate !" 

XI. 

O'er them, now, shall roll the billows 
Once they proudly rode — 

Sea-birds shriek to see them reeling, 
Plunging with their load. 



THE RAT-HOLE SQUADRON. 



143 



XII. 

Steadily, grimly, o'er the waters 
Vengeance wings their flight : 

He, who shaped our Nation's future, 
Guides their course aright ! 
1862. 




"WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF 
IT!" 

— Capt. Cuttle. 



I. 



Close to your heart, in the journey of hfe, 
Safe, 'mid the issues that vary the strife, 
Fail not to carry a scroll, to record 
Such flickering joys as its moments afford. 
If, through the wild storm and the rage of the 

fight. 
The flame of true Friendship burn steadily 

bright, 
Then cherish the remnant of Faith that is 

left, 



WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. I45 

And, though of all else you are shorn and 
bereft, 
'' When found, make a note of it !" 

II. 

When slander and malice have vented their 

worst. 
And o'er you the vials of Hatred have burst ; 
When the foes that have worried and snarled, 

at their will. 
Have reaped their reward, and lie sated and 

still ; 
When, bleeding and faint, yet erect to the 

last, 
You stand face to face with the pitiless past ; 
Then faithfully, earnestly strive to discern 
The lesson your Father has meant you should 

learn : 
" When found, make a note of it !" 



146 WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. 



III. 

And oh ! when temptation is plying its wiles, 
And you feel the warm glow of its treacherous 

smiles, 
When the sky is all black, but the earth is 

still bright, 
And you yearn for a share of its gladness and 

light ; 
Then kneel in your bitterness, weary and 

lone, 
And pray that some voice, with a comforting 

tone, 
May strengthen your soul, and endow you 

with force, 
To "fight a good fight," and to '^finish your 

course." 
" When found, make a note of it !" 



WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. I47 



IV. 



Be patient and strong ! in this Drama of ours, 
Are parts which demand varied talents and 

powers : 
But the best, e'en the humblest of players can 

fill, 
For they need no rehearsal, and challenge no 

skill : ' 
There are tears you can dry— there are lives 

you can bless — 
There are burdens to lighten and wrongs to 

redress ; 
Then, dwell not in selfish repining and wrath, 
But, with Charity's lamp, seek the clew to 

your path : 
" When found, make a note of it !" 



148 WHEN FOUND, MAKE A NOTE OF IT. 



And, when falls the curtain that closes the 

play, 
And the world-wearied actor is passing away, 
May the Scribe who records all the dealings oi 

men. 
Ere he seals up the volume and lays down the 

pen, 
If, amid your sad record, his pity can see 
One act or intent, which may serve as a plea 
For mercy or pardon, to urge at the Court, 
Where your case must be tried, and your 

future be wrought, 
" When found, make a note of it !" 

THE END. 



V ■/■■■f 



